"No. But put up your pistol and I'll get on with my story—unless you'd rather not listen."
"No, no! Go on!"
The pilot stood steady at the helm, his eyes fixed on the binnacle, each movement of the compass-needle a sign for his ready hands to obey. Anon a concise order to shift a sail fell from his lips, for in spite of his interrupted conversation with the captain his every action showed a trained alertness.
Again he took up the thread of his story—
"'Twas my father's death made me—what I am." The pause was ominous. "He was one of us—a smuggler."
"Ah!"
"A run had been planned——"
"I——"
"My father was young and daring. To him was entrusted the most venturesome part of the night's work. But I am anticipating. He had a rival—a man who sought my mother. But she was true to my father."